


Discolouration

by charm point (arthur_pendragon)



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Angst, Multi, and tezuka's character has been maligned, keigo is a huge jerk in this, not kidding about the pain, pain pain pain, sorry - Freeform, thoughts of suicide and self-harm, world of pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 10:12:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2187849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arthur_pendragon/pseuds/charm%20point
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simple motives and actions lead to complicated (but uncomplicated) consequences.<br/>You pay for what you've done/As you sow, so shall you reap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Discolouration

His world is a monochrome hell.

Black. Lighter black. Darker black. Grey. White.

So he just closes his eyes and tries to forget all the times he’s seen the things he wishes he’d never seen. Like Atobe spreading his legs for Tezuka’s fingers, moaning the way he never had with Ryoma. He’s not even - not even supposed to give a fuck about all this shit, he’s got a reputation to fucking maintain and - is this why, at night, he bites his lips as Keigo and Tezuka fuck shamelessly in the adjacent room?

Just let him see colours for once. Please. He does, but everything is so dull. Lifeless. Ryoma is depressed. He’s not stupid enough to deny it and keep taunting everyone around him. But -

When was the last time he wanted to cry before this?

He doesn’t remember, and that’s terrifying, because he doesn’t know how to cry - how do the sobs come out, what do you do with the tears - and when he wipes his nose and finds snot on his fingers he goes and washes his hands but his chest doesn’t stop heaving with the effort of suppressing all sound, his eyes still fill up every two minutes.

Keigo doesn’t even try to hide them. All the marks. Proof of Tezuka’s sex god stature. Fuck off. He wears them proudly, blatantly disregarding the fact that his fucking boyfriend loses his appetite for breakfast after seeing the hickeys across the table.

Yeah. Nice.

“Had fun last night?” Ryoma asks drily, reaching for toast and butter that won’t see the inside of his mouth.

Keigo smirks back. “What the fuck do you care?”

“I don’t, not really,” Ryoma hums, taking hold of a knife. It’s a sharp knife (the butter knife lies neglected). He wants to press it to his skin and run it down his arms. He resists the temptation, and instead liberally slathers the toast with the butter. Atobe remarks, “Then why bother asking? You’ve never been much of a conversationalist, anyway.”

“Excuse me for wanting to talk to my boyfriend.” The toast manages to touch Ryoma’s lips but Ryoma puts it back down.

Atobe’s smirk freezes on his face but the battle to see who can most wound the other hasn’t stopped - “Ah. About that. Ryoma. We do need to talk.”

“Of course.”

“I want to break up with you.”

Ryoma doesn’t even show a flicker of the pain that makes him curl his toes under the table as he mocks Atobe, saying “surprise, surprise” and then getting up and walking away.

He was expecting this, who wouldn’t expect this, he’s the idiot for not being the one to end the relationship and it isn’t even funny anymore, funny like it was all those times in the bathroom when Ryoma laughed at his life under the hot shower, laughed until the laughter turned to tears; funny like it was when he heard Atobe saying “you’re mine” to Tezuka with a swift kiss and the loveliest gaze, in full awareness of Ryoma’s presence.

He doesn’t even want to think about Tezuka’s character in this - what kind of man would - forget it. Pack your bags and take a hike. Ryoma, get out of the house in which Atobe so kindly kept you as a tenant for a thousand days or a hundred months or ten years or one millennium - who fucking knows. Ryoma, just leave.

Ryoma's eyes are red as he shoves all his clothes into a bag, and Atobe watches from the doorway, not willing to do a thing except stare.

* * *

 

What anniversary? What birthday? What fucking occasion would he want to remember that involves him, Atobe and happiness?

So on the day that the two would have completed three years, Ryoma doesn’t pick up Atobe’s phone call the first time and on the second screams into the phone,  _leave me alone,_   _haven’t you had - enough? leave me alone, go fuck him, leave, leave_  - and dissolves into powerful, hopeless sobs after Atobe hangs up. What the fuck is Atobe’s problem, how much insult does he want to add to injury -

He doesn’t even know where the problems started. They both know their differences arose because of Atobe. But which point was square one? Where has he returned to? He needs to know. He has no doubt that he needs to move on - but where does he begin his new life?

Fuck this. Ryoma’s world needs colour.

* * *

 

He finds brightness in the way Horio curls soft fingers around his own, and finds the visible light spectrum in Horio’s face, in the not-at-all good-looking face with the dumb expressions. The kind heart makes up for it and then some more. Who needs a teardrop mole and clear skin when you can have a person who’ll rub your back as you throw up behind a bush, extremely nauseous at the thought of Atobe Keigo And His Inimitable Sex God Lover Tennis Prodigy Tezuka?

All we do need in the long run is someone who won’t try and make our life not worth living, anyway.

Horio doesn’t let Ryoma think about anything other than his incessant chatter, and that’s exactly what Ryoma needs, because in the rambling that Horio tends to do every now and then there are diamonds that he needs to spot, diamonds which soothe the way Ryoma coughs into a handkerchief that isn’t his, which make short work of his sadness and make him forget that there was once a time when he wanted to flay himself alive.

Ah, he has a headache. Where’s the aspirin - oh, it’s with the captain who fucks his ex-boyfriend. Never mind.

Horio’s kisses are priceless. So Ryoma kisses him to see all his joy in those few seconds.

Innocent Horio. Ryoma wants to be in love with him. So he lets himself fall. There’s something to be said about walking out of school holding hands like silly little first-timers still adrift in their puppy love.

Things are still the same. But they’re so different. He goes to a different house at the end of each school day, and kisses someone else into the bed, but this time, someone else kisses back and treasures him and Ryoma technically shouldn’t give a shit because, as mentioned earlier, he has a goddamn reputation to maintain if he wants to explain his rejection of other boys and girls. But Horio treasures him. Ryoma loves Horio. Horio’s so beautiful. Shit, he’s so fucking precious.

So Ryoma hugs him hard, sometimes, whispering  _you saved my life_  into Horio’s ear, not wanting Horio to cry at that but of course Horio cries at that.

The first time they have sex, make love, do the horizontal - what, Ryoma doesn’t know - it’s exceedingly awkward but also amazing. The next few times are less awkward, more amazing - and then nobody looks back. Two months go by. Atobe’s birthday rolls around, and voicemails from one birthday boy at three a.m. of October 4 are not what Ryoma expected on his phone - especially the sounds of rough and undoubtedly exhilarating sex between two captains of rival teams - and fuck fuck  _fuck_

Ryoma spends the day in a stupor, wild with agony, wondering if he’s done something to deserve this. He deletes the voicemails after Horio listens to them and helps him get back up from the cool bathroom floor.

* * *

 

October 7 heralds a birthday party for the Seigaku captain, and Ryoma has to go if he doesn’t want to create the necessity of bridges in the team, so he goes with Horio and sits in a corner of the place Oishi had rented for the party, drinking punch and wishing it was spiked.

At least Horio kisses him frequently enough for Ryoma to find the hours tolerable.

“Atobe’s looking here, isn’t he?” Ryoma blithely asks Horio, who unabashedly turns his head to meet Atobe’s gaze, and says, “Yeah.”

“Bastard,” Ryoma mutters, adding, “Go fuck yourself. The captain does it anyway.” He adds that each time he swears at Atobe. Horio finds it humorous. He's become a fan of sordid humour. So this time, too, he laughs quietly.

Ryoma kisses Horio. “Did I ever tell you that I love the way you kiss?”

Horio nods. Then they kiss again. And again.

There is more than a note of displeasure in Atobe’s gaze when he looks at his ex-boyfriend sliding his tongue into that unknown boy’s mouth but who the fuck cares, who the fuck fucking cares -

* * *

 

“I wonder what it says about me that you chose to move on with somebody that insignificant,” Atobe tells Ryoma one day, after an inter-school tournament (Seigaku defeated Hyotei 3-2).

“Keep wondering, then,” Ryoma says. “And leave me alone.”

“I didn’t like you kissing him that day.”

Ryoma ignores that in favour of telling him, “Then you won’t like the number of times we’ve slept together, asshole.”

Atobe grabs Ryoma’s arm, drags him to a place relatively private, and kisses him. Hard. Covers his body with his own. Ryoma doesn’t struggle. He doesn’t kiss back.

When Atobe pulls away, Ryoma says, “I wonder what it says about you that you were the one to end it but didn’t move on, after all.”

Atobe shoves a hand into Ryoma’s shorts. Ryoma draws it back out.

“I’m in love, now,” he tells Atobe, and the blood leaving Atobe’s face is answer enough for him; he realizes the true intentions behind Atobe’s betrayals. Jealousy? Fucking  _jealousy._  Atobe wanted to make Ryoma just fucking jealous, wanted him to fight for the relationship oh fucking god -

"Fuck you," he spits at Atobe. "Fuck you." His left hook has no bite, but he swings his arm anyway. Atobe's desolate eyes won't plead now, and -

Ryoma cries brokenly the entire bus ride home, but everybody is too scared to ask what’s wrong.

* * *

 

But, you know what? It doesn’t fucking matter.

He’s in love, now.

His world isn’t a monochrome hell, but a vibrant paradise now.

Fuck everything else. He has his colour.

He has his colour.


End file.
